Irrational
by WriterOfNeverKnown
Summary: John turns and finds her somewhere no one should ever be. "No, no! Not there!" he cries in horror. "It's his, isn't it? Mr. Holmes'," guesses Mary. Did she see it too? The instantaneous glimpse of a long man in the black leather chair, ankles crossed, fingers steepled beneath his chin.


John comes down from his room when the doorbell rings. He quickly checks his appearance in the looking glass above the fireplace, fastening his top button, smoothing his hair, checking to be sure his moustache is orderly.

Mrs. Hudson's voice rises up the stairs. "John, dear! Miss Morstan is here!"

Then a musical laugh and a softer voice. "Really, Mrs. Hudson, call me Mary."

John's heart skips a beat at her voice. Smiling, he descends to the foyer where she stands in the doorway with the autumn light behind her. Mrs. Hudson's smile persists as she says good day and retreats back into her flat. John and Mary beam at each other and exchange their familiar hellos. Mary sweeps forward in a pretty blue dress, taking John's hands and squeezing them. He leans in and kisses her cheek, his moustache tickling her and drawing out an angelic giggle.

"You're early," he says.

"Yes, I'm sorry. I got off work and I didn't want to wait any longer to see you." She smiles at him, her baby-blue eyes tipped up under pale red lashes, making her every wish undeniable.

"No need to apologize, darling. The show doesn't start for another hour and a half. Come on up and I'll make us something for supper." He leads her by the hand up the eleven stairs to the sitting room of 221B Baker Street.

On the way, she remarks, "It struck me in the cab on the way here that I have never actually been in your flat, and I very much would like to see it."

John glances over his shoulder at her and gives a wolfish grin. "_Just _the flat?"

Mary laughs as he leaves her admiring the sitting room and moves into the kitchen. "Yes, _just _the flat. For now."

Chuckling, John opens the fridge and the cupboards and gathers the fixings for a two-person supper. Considering that he is still – officially – a bachelor, the kitchen is quite tidy. Gone are the days of heads in the icebox, fingers on the floor, eyes in the microwave, and tobacco ash on the table. It took a long time, but after a year, John finally came to terms with the fact that everyone so readily accepted: his best friend Sherlock Holmes really is dead. He's not coming back.

John couldn't bring himself to get rid of all of it, opting to keep the more precious, more important things. He supposes it's his subconscious's way of constantly reminding him that some part of his soul has not given up hope, that some part of him will never stop waiting for Sherlock Holmes to come home. Whatever the case, the small table beneath the window in the kitchen holds the microscope, its box of slides, a bubble-wrap stack of petri dishes, and a small cluster of chemical bottles, all waiting to be used again.

"Ah, and who is this? Should I be jealous?" asks Mary.

John turns and sees her holding the skull from the mantle. The skull that once belonged to Sherlock. "No, of course not," he says, giving a believable smile. "That's just an old friend."

"Uh-huh." Mary does not know very much about John's time in this flat with the legendary Sherlock Holmes – he hasn't shared often and Mary has not pushed the obviously painful subject – but she is an intelligent woman and knows not to press further when John turns away too quickly.

After supper, John puts away the dishes and is clearing away the pile of newspapers – where he reads about cases progressing slowly without his friend – from the couch, about to offer Mary a seat there. But he turns and finds her somewhere no one should ever be.

"No, no! Not there!" he cries, lurching forward with such a look of horror on his face that Mary jumps up.

"What? What's wrong?"

"You… You can't sit there." He feels his face heating up and he tries to think of something logical that can excuse this outburst (It's an antique? It's just been cleaned? No), but nothing comes to him. Instead, he simply apologizes. "I'm… I'm sorry. Sorry."

Mary takes his hand and he meets her eyes. "No, I'm sorry, John." She whispers even though they are the only ones there. Or maybe she saw it too. The momentary – no, _instantaneous_ – glimpse of a third: a long man in the black leather chair, ankles crossed, fingers steepled beneath his chin, pale blue eyes alight with excitement.

But Mary can't have seen him. The ghost that haunts John's dreams and waking moments alike is just that: a ghost. If anyone knew he still sees Sherlock Holmes – after two long years – they might talk, might assume something untrue. The truth is merely that when you spend four years living with someone who shows you layers of the world that hardly anyone else is able to see, when you depend on that person and he depends on you, when you become as close to someone as John was to Sherlock…

Well, there is a seam that connects people like that. And when one is ripped away from the other, it leaves a scar that never fades.

"It's his, isn't it?"

John starts, the Sherlock-shape in the chair disappears, and Mary swims back into his vision. He's not sure he heard her right.

"It's Mr. Holmes'," she repeats. "The chair."

He nods slowly. "Sherlock's, yes."

Mary turns him gently and pushes him into his own chair across from the black leather one. He watches her curiously as she sits on the floor, leaning on his knees, and looks at the consulting detective's chair too.

"Tell me about him, John," she asks, squeezing his hand.

"Mary, I can't." His voice doesn't break. It almost does, wants to so badly, but he forces it to hold. Two years has stitched some of him back together, but the wound will forever be tender and vulnerable.

"Please," she begs softly. "I want to know who he was, and who better to tell me than you?"

It takes a bit more coaxing, but Mary finally wins him over and he begins to tell her everything, things only his heart has preserved of Sherlock Holmes. Once John starts, he finds he cannot stop. It is like he has pulled away the supports of a dam and now the whole thing is crumbling down. He tells Mary about Sherlock's cases, outlining his greatest achievements, and only mentions his own involvement when Mary asks for it. He feels he will taint his friend's memory if he adds too much of himself.

John avoids the subject of Mycroft because, if he's honest, he blames Mycroft for Sherlock's death. Instead, he laughs as he recounts Sherlock's annoying idiosyncrasies: body parts in the kitchen, chemical formulas aging in the bathroom sinks, books and notes all over the flat, violin music at all hours. He points out the smiling face in the wall and the bullet holes that make up its features. Mary beams and laughs with him, somehow lifting a bit of the invisible, omnipresent weight off his permanently bowed shoulders.

He describes Sherlock's appearance for Mary: curly black hair, pale blue eyes, sharp nose and chin, long spindly fingers. Mary has seen his picture many times in the paper, but now she sees him through John's eyes, lounging in his chair by the fire. They watch him together, and John takes comfort in Mary's presence between him and Sherlock. It is a different feeling, certainly not the same, but not entirely wrong either.

It is early the next morning by the time Mary leaves. John embraces her tightly and kisses her cheek. "Thank you, Mary," he says. "Thank you so much."

She smiles radiantly. "No. Thank you for sharing him with me."

John sleeps well for the first time in a long while that night. He feels lighter, happier. Sharing Sherlock with Mary has given him closure in some strange way. Sherlock's ghost still sits in the black leather chair beside the fire, but now, his presence doesn't make John feel alone.


End file.
